Fanfictive Idylls
by Ember Nickel
Summary: Third place in the Fanfiction Idol competition. Each chapter is an independent story.
1. The Ghosts Giving Up

_Author's note: This is my audition piece for the "Fanfiction Idol" contest. If I make it to later rounds of the contest, my future entries will show up as further chapters, but each chapter is a complete and independent story._

_I've had the basic idea behind this particular story for quite a long time. The basic premise was meant to show up towards the end of a long multi-chapter story I've kind of abandoned. But I've reworked the timeframe here, so this piece covers more ground than that chapter would have and is meant to stand on its own._

**The Ghosts Giving Up**

_One_

Every September for the previous two centuries, give or take, the Fat Friar had watched the first years, hoping for more Hufflepuffs. He wanted more housemates, and knew he'd be there for them. When the Hufflepuffs were too shy, too modest, to stand up for themselves, he could defend his house.

1998 was different.

There was nothing that the Fat Friar needed for himself, but he saw how desperate the school was for what Hufflepuffs had to give. Effort. Loyalty. Open hearts, to welcome everyone. Some of the old barriers had broken down—the blood purity requirement was smashed as thoroughly as several balconies that were by then pebbles. Classical divisions between years had blurred away, as those forced out of school and those who left early returned, the standard curricula at a loss to accommodate them. And the time for heroic, suicidal courage was mercifully past. Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor: all had had their day, but Hogwarts needed Hufflepuffs then.

And they were _there_.

A few in knots, helping their newest fellows find their way around the school. Many more mingling with other houses, guiding more first years or simply teaming up to repair a banister. Not standing out, not calling attention to themselves, but making the right choices. When Peeves called "Ickle firsties, can't get past me, eh!" Hannah Abbott was there, pointing out another staircase that would get a terrified pair of Slytherins off to Transfiguration class.

"Proud of your dumb old badger, are ya?" Peeves asked, while idly preparing an unpleasant surprise for the next person to touch an old handrail.

"She's not mine," said the Friar. "I thought they needed someone to follow, but they can...perhaps, walk side by side."

"Uh-huh," said Peeves, nodding vigorously mid-somersault. "_Side by side, cause the halls are wide, cause all the rooms are blown apart. Firsties walking, Peevsie blocking all their paths, ooh watch me dart_!"

The Fat Friar watched Peeves. He might as well, he decided; the Hufflepuffs could certainly handle themselves.

_Two_

"Happy Deathday, Sir Nicholas!" Myrtle breezed through a wall as she cornered the ghost of Gryffindor outside the Transfiguration classroom.

"Thank you very much!" he smiled. "It's a..." "Pleasure," at least by the standards of a Deathday, seemed to be stretching the truth a bit. "I mean to say, fancy meeting you here!"

"You didn't want any festivities? That's all right, I'll go back to my bathroom."

"Er, no, that's not it," he rushed. "It's only, that, I wasn't planning anything big this year. It's just my five hundred sixth, not a very exciting number. After all the excitement of the five hundredth I didn't see any reason to splurge. And to be honest, I've had enough of the Headless Hunt to last a lifetime."

He tilted his head to one side, thoughtfully (it stayed put). "A _life_time. Yes. Not a death-time. Wouldn't mind showing them up some day once they've learned manners."

"What's so big a deal about the number five hundred, anyway?" she said, as Nick followed her up a flight past staircases. (Not up a flight_ of_ staircases. Up a _flight_ past staircases.) "It's Muggles who like fancy zeroes, wizards go for twelves and sevens and suchlike."

"That's true," he sighed. "But I suppose I'm more like a Muggle, in some ways. Never to cast a spell again..."

"You also can't really eat or sleep or do any of that. But you _can_ see Hogwarts. You're a ghost, that's all there is to it!"

"That's all there is," he repeated, shaking his head slightly. "Sometimes I wonder whether the Sorting Hat really saw any Gryffindor bravery in me."

_Three_

Myrtle was so lost in contemplation, a dreamy smile spreading across her face, that she didn't see Peeves approaching.

"Thinking about how handsome I am?_  
>Every little teenage ghost<br>Thinks about Peevsie the most..._"

"No," Myrtle interrupted. "I was just remembering how nice Hogwarts looked when it was full of death."

"When you died, you mean?"

"No," she said—a bit worried, as it was already the longest they'd spent in conversation without her running off in tears for about thirty years. "Last May, when everybody was dying. Lots and lots of people." Dead adults and dead children. Harry Potter was dead for a little bit, but then he wasn't, and Tom Riddle was dead too. Myrtle had never liked him.

"Ooh, yes, there was utter chaos. That was very exciting," Peeves reminisced. "Ought to have another proper battle, everyone likes me helping out then."

"Nobody came back."

"Eh?"

"There were sixty-some people dead and not any ghosts! Not even little Colin Creevey. He was quite nice."

"So what? You'll get to haunt new firsties every year. _Ickle firsties—_"

"But they all grow up!" Myrtle wailed. "Even Olive Hornby died and I can't haunt her anymore."

"You always knew she'd die, didn't you?  
><em>Sixty years to have your tease<br>Call whatever names you please.  
>Now you're just stuck in the bath<br>On and on, oh what a laugh.  
>Haunt and moan and chant your jeers,<br>When you're a ghost, sixty years  
>Isn't that long an amount.<br>I thought Ravenclaws could count!_"

Myrtle accelerated out of the bathroom and down whatever hallways she could, eventually winding up where any real Ravenclaw would go: the library. She glided through the shelves, startling another Ravenclaw.

"Oh, hello," said Luna Lovegood. "Have you come for a book?"

"Oh, let's all give Myrtle a book to read! No, silly girl, I can't turn the pages!"

"I'm very sorry," said Luna. "Would you like me to read to you?"

"If you can find books about keeping stupid poltergeists away from you, maybe."

"I'm not sure if I'll be able to do that," said Luna, "but I can try."

She idly picked her way through several books, often glancing only briefly at one before putting it aside. "It doesn't look very promising," she sighed. "Let's see...Poltergeists are bound to specific _locations_, i.e. buildings and cannot be removed. Contrast with ghosts, who have freedom of movement although..." Luna narrowed her eyebrows, which were dyed a rather fetching yellow on the day. "...impossible to corroborate...numbers have certainly varied over time...exaggerated claims about the equinox are known even among Muggles."

"Eh?" said Myrtle. "What does that have to do with getting rid of..."

There came Peeves again. "Miserable Myrtle's in the library with Loony Lovegood, ooh!"

"I'll check the book out," said Luna gamely. "You can come by Ravenclaw Tower sometime, we'll read it together."

_Four_

"Do you know," Professor Vaughan asked as she collapsed into a chair in the staff room, "whether any of my students are Muggle-born?"

"Not off the top of my head," said Headmistress McGonagall, glaring at her. "But why on earth does it matter?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Vaughan blushed, "nothing important. It's only that I'm afraid I'll make a mistake in front of someone who knows better and they'll make me look like a fool in front of the entire class."

"Well, even the half-bloods might have some Muggle relatives," Professor Urbins pointed out. "If you spend all your time worrying you'll never get anything done, will you now?"

"Pollux, you're not helping."

"Now, now, Susanna," said Professor Sprout, handing the young Muggle Studies professor a biscuit, "not to worry. Maybe this is a chance for you to open the floor up to your students, ask them what they know about Muggle achievements first. Everyone has these feelings when they first start out."

"Codswallop," Professor Binns muttered. "It isn't like first-years come in knowing how to whip up potions or Transfigure anything, do they? Maybe _me_ they could show up, if they actually paid attention in class, but they all think they're too good for History of Magic."

"Some of them _made _that history, Cuthbert," said McGonagall. "Look at Dennis Creevey, Natalie McDonald, all the young D. A. students. They're too young to drop the core classes but they're old enough to change the world."

"That is as immaterial as...as...er, me," Binns trailed off. "I don't have a capable replacement in all of Britain even if I could leave the job."

"Oh, are you thinking about retiring?" Sprout asked conversationally. "You've certainly earned a nice breather."

"I...think about a lot of things," he said defensively, and reminded himself that he dealt in facts.

_Five_

"Give over, Luna," said Orla Quirke, bouncing onto a couch. "We've got Gobstones to shoot."

The Thursday nights of 1999 had been increasingly tense in Ravenclaw Tower. At first, when it was just Luna and Myrtle, Luna could point out that "Myrtle can stay here too, she is a Ravenclaw. _Is_, Myrtle, if you keep thinking of yourself as a has-been we'll never get anywhere." And then, when the Grey Lady stood beside them—saying nothing, simply listening to Luna read—well, it wasn't like the Ravenclaw students could band together to kick the Ravenclaw ghost out of Ravenclaw Tower.

But then the Bloody Baron started coming, and that was the last straw. Nick or the Friar they'd let in, even Binns as long as he kept his mouth shut, but the rest of Ravenclaw could not tolerate the sound of rattling chains when they had studying to do. There were times when Luna was the only living human in the common room, but as soon as others showed up, she'd gotten used to leaving. No matter how much she told them she wanted to learn things, there'd be two or three of her fellow students in a snit about how some things were just _known_ to be true.

"Come on, then," she said. The ghosts following behind her, she made her way out of the common room and through the corridors.

"Where are we off to?" asked Nick. "The library again?"

"I was thinking we could try the Room of Requirement."

"I thought that didn't work," the Baron moaned.

"It didn't for me. I know the Heliopaths ravaged it, but I think it should still be viable...I wonder if any of you could get in? Just pass through the wall before there's even a door. You might find what you need."

"A book?" said Myrtle. "We can't turn the pages."

"We might as well give it a try," said the Friar.

Binns led the ghosts through the blank wall. Luna put her weight on first one foot, then another, hoping a door would somehow materialize. It didn't, but neither was there any sign of the ghosts. Had something gone wrong?

No, maybe something had gone right! Maybe that was all it would take to let them go on, stepping through the wall where they'd find what they most needed. This was how disappearance worked for other people: abrupt, yet without closure. Pleased at this possibility, Luna strolled down the hall and back to Ravenclaw Tower. Ignoring the others' eyebrows, she pulled out her Charms textbook and began reading.

Half an hour later, Professor Binns drifted through the walls, muttering under his breath. "...a literal interpretation of the word "imprint" suggests that ghosts are most akin to magical portraits, which survive on the earth while those they represent remain elsewhere. However, this theory is, as quoted in Bertrand de Pensées-Profonde's _On the Nature of Death, Whether Natural or Untimely, and Certain Wizardly Aftereffects Thereof_, "absolute bollocks.""

"Ooh, Professor, do you have a photographic memory?" asked Luna.

"What? Er. I suppose so, yes. Rubbish newfangled devices, your photography machines are."

The other Ravenclaws were so impressed by Professor Binns' use of the word "bollocks," they didn't tell Luna to kick him out of the tower.

_Six_

"We'll shoot for June, then? I'll be done with my exams," said Luna. It felt strange, trying to order people hundreds of times older than her around. But they simply nodded, Myrtle and Nick and the Friar and Binns and the Grey Lady and—

The Bloody Baron opened his mouth, which took so long Luna thought he was yawning. "This may be...unwise."

She waited a long moment, but when he did not follow up, asked, "How so?"

"I...chose to remain on Earth for a reason. I thought myself...unworthy to travel beyond this life. My...reason remains as...relevant, as ever. I still feel undeserving, and after so long, it seems untoward to meddle with fate."

While the Grey Lady regarded him with something almost like pity in her gaze, Luna closed her eyes for a moment, thinking. She didn't want to speak hastily. "Sir, may I ask you a rather...personal question?"

The air seemed dry. Maybe ghosts made things musty.

"You may," he finally decreed. "But you might not receive an honest answer."

"That's fine," she said. "I actually don't know how personal a question this is, for ghosts. But, er, how old are you?"

"Excuse me?" His response was reflexive, more surprised than offended.

"I mean, how many years ago were you born?"

He needed to take a minute to count on his fingers, which involved some unpleasant clanking. "One thousand ninety-three."

"And how old...I mean to say, how many years have you been a ghost?"

More quickly this time, he announced, "One thousand fifty."

"So that's...about twenty-one times longer you've been a ghost than properly alive, yes?" He did not seem to have any inclination to repeat her arithmetic, so she pressed on. "And you've been here at Hogwarts this whole time? With all the Slytherins that have come through?"

"I have."

"All the _Slytherins_. For better or worse, very many of them have left their mark on the wizarding world. You've probably influenced some of them, somehow—a comment here, silence somewhere else. Have you not?"

"...I may have," he says, after a long pause. "But it is impossible to know how things would have been, otherwise."

"Exactly!" she grinned. "You've probably influenced the course of history even more in...in Hogwarts than you did in life." Was it just her, or was the Grey Lady trembling? "If you keep judging yourself by what you did before, you'll never get a chance to be judged on what you've done this last millennium."

The Baron hesitated, then said, his chains staying rigid and silent, "So be it. I will try."

Luna couldn't think of anything to say, so she simply walked away as first Nick, then Binns, flitted off. She heard the Baron as he floated after the departing Grey Lady and asked, in a low voice, "Why did you stay?" She did not hear an answer.

_Seven_

Luna spent most of the longest day of 1999 in her room. Exams were over, but she was too nervous to talk to anyone, and the ghosts kept their distance. Maybe they were explaining things to Peeves, or McGonagall. The Headmistress had pulled Luna aside one day in the hallways and asked her, pointedly, how she was doing. Luna responded politely, and truthfully, but said little. Even Headmistresses could be stricken by Wrackspurts, and it would never do to try and explain to her in such a willful state.

An hour before sunset, she walked towards the entrance hall, waving to a skeptical Filch as she did. She'd have to remind Peeves not to give him too much trouble.

She wished she had some kind of instrument...a horn, a fiddle, even a drum. Her father once had a very nice flute. Idly, she wandered east of the castle, kneeling down at the forest's edge and picking up a stick. She tapped the ground with it a few times, trying to beat out some sort of rhythm.

It snapped in two.

Luna shivered, in spite of the warmth, and paced, and waited. Myrtle was the first to come out, but drifted slowly, taking in all of the grounds. Then came the Grey Lady, the Bloody Baron a few paces behind. Nick and the Friar, swapping jokes, took their time showing up, while Binns rushed behind. "Sorry," he said. "Had some very, _very_ overdue library books to return. Madam Pince should be quite pleased with the fines, I expect."

"What did you use books for?" said Myrtle. "You can't turn the pages."

"That might have had something to do with why they were so many decades overdue."

"If we're all ready, then?" Nick urged.

"Yes," said Luna. "Er, I looked a very long time for a Blibbering Humdinger, but I haven't seen one since last year. And Professor Dumbledore always did say music was a very strong magic...Mr. Baron, could you keep the beat, please?"

"The what?"

"The beat. You know, one, two? Er, one, two, three, four?"

The Bloody Baron stared at her long and hard, and then ventured, "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight?"

"Er, no, not quite. If you could clink your chains in time. On the beat?"

"It's like dancing," the Grey Lady impatiently explained. "You stamp your feet, in time."

"I'll be busy..._swaying_," he almost spat, "in time anyway. I should think that'll make enough noise."

"All right, then," said Luna. "You all remember what to do?"

"Yes, yes," said the Friar. "Go on."

She stood at the edge of the forest, then took a few steps forward. The setting sun cast a long shadow behind her. Above it, she knew, the ghosts were settling in, lying flat.

Luna began to dance. On her own, the first few paces, and then she heard the clink of the Baron's chains. As she whirled, her shadow spinning behind her, the ghosts too bent and changed shape, mirroring her every motion until it seemed she had seven shadows, not one. Or maybe she had one in seven layers.

The sun fell lower and she turned away from the castle, leaping side to side or scurrying backwards rather than squint. She tried jumping and whirling at once, eyes shut tight. Once or twice she was fast enough to see the swirling ghosts, but she tried to not look too hard at them.

The Baron was not too helpful as far as providing rhythm went; his chains continued sounding and resounding, but in one continuous blur rather than beats she could keep track of. Perhaps it would have helped if he was landing on the ground, but instead they all continued reshaping themselves, in line (and curve) with her decreasingly-proportionate shadow.

At last the sun was so low, she could face forward without encountering glare, and she knew it could not be too much longer. Suddenly conscious of how exhausted she was, she stood still for a moment, slowly rubbing her hands together to spin her wand. She'd been gripping it the entire time, sending magic through it until it almost burned her hands to grasp, but she was not casting any spell. Instead, it acted as a conduit to focus all the magic turning around her.

She passed her wand to her left hand alone, pointing it to the sky as she spun around once, twice, thrice. Then, facing the west horizon, Luna leaped one final time.

One moment, she stood as if floating above the ground, her shadow and the ghosts stretched into the forest behind her as long as they would be. The next, she hit the ground at the moment the sun went down on the longest day.

Luna stood a few moments, waiting for her heart to return to some kind of normal pace. She was sweating heavily, and her wand hand still burnt. After what seemed like a couple of minutes passed with no change, she began to worry a little. While she could hide an injury well enough, it would be poor appreciation of Ollivander's labor if she burned out her wand after barely a year. _Lumos_, she thought, not wanting to go back to everyday verbal magic right away.

A small orb of light formed at the tip of her wand. Good enough. She walked forward, taking her time, and did not look back. The sun had set; her shadow was gone. Perhaps the rite had failed, perhaps the ghosts were hiding in the forest rather than tell her that she had failed, that they could not go on. But she was not inclined to believe that.

She'd give them time, then start sending an owl or two. Discretely: she felt no need to call attention to herself. But if she'd pulled it off, she might be needed in the future.

At least for a short time. Unbidden, memories sprang into view as she walked west towards the castle. Voices, prophecies, ghosts of the past.

"_At the Solstice will come a new..."_

"_...and none will come after."_


	2. Notes to Cellf

_Author's note: There are several purposeful grammar mistakes that make fun of the German "verb-at-the-end" phenomenon. If the German part isn't clear, Google Translate should help. :-)_

_Yes, this is supposed to be a humor story, in part. If you enjoyed it, please check out the challenge (located on the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum) and follow the instructions whenever voting time comes around._

**Notes to Cellf**

Day...5?

Ugh. If my deputies had been less aggravatingly Neo-Gothic and more actually utilitarian perhaps they would have been able to construct a more practical prison. This cell is almost...grandiose as cells go, up at the very top in the middle. I have no idea who they were intending to put in here. Up until last week I was of the belief that none of my enemies were particularly special or powerful.

Take this window, for instance. It's nice. I have a view of the sea. Why in blazes would people have wasted time negotiating with Muggles for some overpriced island property when there were equally useful landlocked sites? Unless they eliminated the Muggles, but even so, I hope none of my deputies would have cared about their enemies having nice views.

Sympathy. Bah.

Day 6

I want parchment.

Day 18

The Muggle war is still going on in the Pacific. Ugh. Ironic, I think, if I remember the etymology.

(Dumbledore must have gone home, as my guards are a shockingly continental bunch. They've figured out when I wandlessly magick German, Bulgarian, Hungarian, even Russian of all things onto the walls, but not English. This is laboriously slow and raises their attention but it's something to do while I wait for parchment.)

I don't even know any Cyrillic letters!

Day 20

Oh, honestly, I'm not going to send any owls out of here. I just want to write. Keeps me from going insane. Or sane, by their backwards standards. They should want to help me.

I asked if they could move me to one of the work camps. It'd be nice to do some honest work. Contribute to the greater good and all. No, I'm stuck in this because it "looks ironic." They're having a laugh!

Day 31

I know it is a month now because I watch the moon. Probably more.

There is no one here.

There are guards who sure that I don't any magic use make...

English grammar, ugh.

I think there are two guards but when I use the men's room, no one else has ever used the toilet paper. I can the number of sheets left count, as there nothing else to do is. I am the only one who uses it.

Where are all my deputies? What excuses did they make?

I don't know where they put the women's room. Or are there more than one room? Women are very slow on the toilet. I told them, for the work camps, to lots of them put, so that the women back to work can get.

Day 32

No one will tell me if my deputies are still alive. Maybe they thought it would be more merciful to kill them.

No. Where remains life, there power sits.

Day 33

I may have underestimated the importance of the Other Two. No true Master of Death would let himself be shut up in this ridiculous castle.

Day 36

Things to do on next Peverell Quest:

*Bully French Ministry into finding Flamel for me—Sorcerer's Stone is clearly a cheap imitation. This should not be too hard. They are the French Ministry.

*Summoning Charms. Highly-powerful ones at random places on British Isles.

*Get a better sign so I don't need to deal with British nutcracks. The real Questers will remember the sign from before.

*Train Nifflers to find Invisibility Cloaks.

*Hang out on riverbanks at midnight. Just in case.

*Investigate promising Muggle machine. I believe it is known as a "rock tumbler."

*...will have to duel Albus again. Ugh.

Day 38

Finally I get a newspaper, and what is it? The cursed Quidditch! If you, that I about the Heidelberg Harriers, whose captain couldn't his own robes lace, care, think, then you're as big a fool as the rest of them.

And the margins are too small to scribble in even if I had a quill.

I want a quill and parchment and ink. Maybe that's why they refuse, they don't want to keep giving me more and more ink because I will run out.

I would be careful with the quill, I promise them.

Day 40

I read about the Quidditch. I read about the Quidditch so much that at night I dream about it. Harriers and brooms and all kind of things, flying, flying over the sea.

The window is thin. So thin...I could vanish the glass, I know, even wandlessly. I could throw the Quidditch scores out of it, although I need the page more and more each hour. Probably I will need it until I can memorize it.

Day 42

I tried talking to one of my guards.

She is a

a

They are getting smarter about the English words.

Day 45

Still I am too young. I could do things. Any things. For anybody's good, I could do something!

Day 49

I ripped the paper up.

It would drive me to weakness.

Day 50

I could still etch the scores into the stone. I remember all of them.

They do not deserve that.

Day 51

Maybe I would rather forget them all.

Would I be happier forgetting what I cannot have again?

**Gellert Grindelwald was here**

and they made him write in the victors' tongue.

Day 54

Too big. Too pretty. Too fantastical.

I do not know which one of my lackeys built this but someday they—

That is, they did such an incompetent job that I should be able to—

There are some things I cannot write down. I do not know who is watching.

Day 70

Weeks of using my magic in spurts, saving it...

There is nothing here. Nothing I can use. Yet.

Day 74

Of course I do not have to defeat Albus in a duel to take his wand. Theft works. Defeating him, period, works.

I need to practice my tenpin bowling.

Day 75

Things I will do better next time:

*Put all my enemies in work camps. No ostentatious (right English?) prisons like this. It is effective at annoying people but my enemies can still contribute something.

*Establish control of media more quickly. Ditto borders. Don't want news leaking out before I can handle threats from outside.

*Spread rumors that I prefer to communicate in Russian.

*As I will surely never again advance in politics on my own, I will have lots of time to check up on all my highest-ranked deputies and make sure they are doing good jobs.

*Should I develop enemies, I will research their political backgrounds and seek common ground. If a friend can become an enemy, so can the opposite.

*If I must have deputies of the "cast first, ask questions later" nature, I will make them dress up as Muggles so that enemies-turned-friends do not take them too seriously.

*Create a will explaining who takes charge in the event of my death. Or imprisonment for that matter. Update it regularly and announce that I update it so there is an incentive for progress.

*Do not publicize the contents of the will. I don't want people knowing who they're competing with, they will try to undercut the others and we will not get anywhere.

*Invest in House-Elves. Develop personal relationships with them. Especially the kind that can Apparate through Anti-Apparition barriers.

*Create a false memory. If it comes to that, trade it to Dumbledore for clemency.

*And the wand. This will be the tricky part.

Day 80

The Muggle war is over. Ended by strange new weapons that kill thousands in moments. Civilians. Children.

And the wizards do nothing!

Day 83

At last, the parchment is here. At last. Perhaps it will take me days to begin to use, I must prolong the joy of having it. There is no telling when my next happiness will come.

Day 87

Still I have not opened it. I do not want to grow so dependent on these my enemies that I smile like a dog for joy by _their_ hands. I am not so weak. Never.

Day 95

What if it is fake? What if the ink has gone stale?

I must open it.

Tag 366

Gellert Grindelwald ist hier.

Ist...

Wo sind sie?


	3. Truths and Lions

Oh, so you're wondering how all of this got here?

Yeah. Excellent question.

Let me tell you a story about that.

It all began in the distant—kind of—past, on a dark—but not too scary—night, much like last night. I mean, it depends on what you were doing last night, I guess. Reading textbooks? Not too scary. Taking a shower? Probably not too scary, although it sort of depends on where the ghosts hang out these days. Listening to the Cannons' midweek game?

Okay, that was pretty horrifying.

But never mind that. As a wizard of pure blood and heritage, I had taken it upon myself to broaden my horizons, in the words of our esteemed headmaster, by engaging in a Muggle tradition introduced to me by a dear...ish friend's cousin.

"So, explain this again?" I said. "You have to answer the question, or do something?"

"Well, you choose first," Angelina Johnson replied, "depending on which you would rather do."

"All right. And this thing you would have to do..." Knowing that it was a school night, and that we would need to get to bed rather sharpish, and that I didn't want to deprive anyone of too much beauty sleep when I could be making them do things at other times—say, next Hogsmeade weekend—I sought out clarification. "It has to be tonight, yes?"

"Yes. Right on your turn."

"Look, maybe this is a stupid idea," said Alicia Spinnet, who looked about ready to pick up her Care of Magical Creatures book again and start being worryingly academic.

"No, no, I'll catch on," I promised.

"Yeah, we'll get the hang of it," Fred Weasley promised. "You go first."

"All right," Angelina said coolly, taking a while to look around. It wasn't really difficult—we were the only people left in the Gryffindor common room. It wasn't even that late. Just kind of darkish. "Alicia, truth or dare?"

"Truth," said Alicia.

"Do you...d'you think Cedric Diggory is cute?"

"Oh no," George interrupted before Alicia could think of a response, "you told us this was a game boys could play. Trust me, I do _not_ want to deal with this."

"I'm not going to ask _you_," she said witheringly, "I'm asking Alicia, she can think of something else to ask you."

Dubiously, we turned to Alicia, who must have seen no sense in prolonging the question. "Not, I mean, he's just our age."

"_Just_ our age?" Angelina grinned. "What, okay, I know what I'm asking next time."

"It's me next," she said. "George, don't worry, I won't ask you. How about...Lee?"

"Uh...give me a minute."

"Lee, c'mon!"

"No, it's just, how would you know if I'm telling the truth? If I say I'll answer a question."

"We have to take your word for it," said Angelina.

I didn't want to pick a fight with her, but..."The Muggles are so trusting. No wonder people thought they could be wiped out. Okay, okay, truth."

Alicia crossed her legs as she turned to me. "Would you ever cheat on a paper?"

"No," I said without a moment's thought. "I mean, it's just school, right? If I'm not going to do it I might as well not take the time to copy something down."

"A man with his priorities straight," George clapped me on the back.

"So...so do I go next?"

"I think so," said Angelina, "it's been a while."

"Great. Okay. Alicia, truth or dare?"

"You can't pick her, you have to pick someone else. I think."

"All right, Fred?"

"Dare," he said quickly.

"All right. Awesome. You should prank...your brother Percy. Go and try and sneak into his dorm and turn his knickers pink."

There was a pause.

"Oh c'mon, that's easy. Just color-changing, you know how to do that."

"Yeah," said Fred, "except, they're probably all asleep in there, and if they're not, it's going to be tough to explain what I'm doing."

"Just say it's for a game."

"But even then, I don't think I'm supposed to peek in other people's trunks."

"The point of the game is to embarrass each other, not other people," Angelina explained.

"Yeah, but Fred's my friend, I don't want to embarrass him when there are people like Percy to prank," I said.

"I could turn my own knickers pink," volunteered Fred.

"Yeah, but how would we know the difference?" George asked.

"Isn't that the point?"

"Just hurry up and do something," said Angelina.

"All right, all right," said Fred, pointing his wand in an unusual stance and muttering under his breath. Then, very quickly—there wasn't much of a way to be discreet about it—he risked a glance down his robes. "Done, and you'll have to take it on faith. All right, George?"

"Dare."

"Okay, I dare you to give the truthful answer to the question I'm about to ask you."

"That's not fair," said Angelina, "that's not how the game works."

"Does now."

"Why do you want me to answer a question anyway?" asked George. "Isn't pranking much more fun?"

"Yeah, but we're not going to really prank anybody, are we? Just each other. Wait, Angelina, if I dared George to pull a prank on Alicia here—"

"I'd get up and leave, now that I have fair warning," Alicia cut him off.

"...Right."

"Okay, go ahead and ask the question," Angelina decreed, "but after this, no more tricks."

"Right you are, ma'am. George, old boy! What did Mum make you do after Charlie's birthday party that year?"

"Nothing," he said.

"You're fibbing."

"'mnot," George muttered, but even I knew something was off.

"What happened at Charlie's birthday party?" I asked.

"We," said Fred before George could jump in, "as in George _and_ I, thought it would be nice to...make the cake ourselves, so that Mum wouldn't have to."

"How considerate of you," Alicia rolled her eyes.

"It really was. We gave it icing and all."

"Where by icing," said George, "is meant a layer of black sludge all around it."

"To represent all the Bludgers he's dodged through the years."

"For some reason, Mum didn't take it well."

"And this git," Fred pointed to George, "took the fall himself without letting me in on it."

"Hey, I remember insulting your baking skills to all the world, you can't say you got off easy."

"But I can't bake."

"That's putting it lightly."

"So what did she do to you?"

"Nothing. Like I said."

"You should add some yellow...er...toppings, next year," I volunteered. "Call it a Golden Snitch."

"That's not half bad," Fred's eyes lit up. "If he weren't off with the dragons I'd give it a shot."

"Wait, whose turn is it?" George asked.

Nobody knew.

"You're oddly quiet, Angelina, I think it's you next."

She shrugged.

"Right, then, truth or dare?"

She opened her mouth, started to say something, but then cut herself off before stammering "Dare."

"I dare you to...sing a Celestina Warbeck song."

She blushed. "Ugh, the point is to embarrass _me_, not to make _yourself _uncomfortable. Trust me, you'll regret this."

"Try me."

Glaring, she started...moving her lips, at least, although not much in the way of sound came out.

"You have to sing loud enough to _hear_, at least," said Alicia. "And you're the one who said "no tricks.""

"I thought we agreed we didn't want to do anything that could wake other people up?"

"You're just chicken," said Fred.

"Oh trust me, I'm doing this for your sakes as much as mine."

"This is a stupid game," I said. "People are just going to try to cheat and get out of things, and if we have to keep going around in the same order, it's not going to be that much fun."

"Well, now that we've gone around once, we could probably mix it up. Just as long as everybody does it once each round."

"So basically you don't remember the rules and you want to be able to choose who you ask next?"

She rolled her eyes. "Fine, we can stop."

"No, if you want to keep going...that's okay."

"All right. Fred?"

He didn't hesitate. "Dare."

"I dare you to pet Mrs. Norris."

"Mrs. Norris?" we all blurted, and Alicia kept going. "She's probably out prowling somewhere, how is he even supposed to find her?"

"Next time you get either of the twins to say truth you can ask them," said Angelina, "they have some way of spying on people they don't tell me about, I think."

The Weasleys burst out laughing. They'd sworn me to secrecy on the subject.

"Even if we did," said Fred, "Mrs. Norris isn't a person."

"She'll be with Filch."

Fred closed his eyes and held his arms in front of him. "Oooh," he teased, waving his arms, "I foresee that Filch is...heading to bed, and Mrs. Norris is curled up under the bed."

"Do you foresee any secret passages into his room?" Alicia asked.

"No." He opened his eyes and returned his arms to his side. "Bad luck. All right, Lee?"

"Dare."

"I dare you to...walk into the lake with your robes on."

"The _lake_?" I blurted. "What, do you want me to find Mrs. Norris for you?"

"Just cast _Lumos_ or something, you can stay out of her way."

I tried to change the subject. "Uh...um. Whatever. Why do you want me to jump in the lake, anyway? If you're not going to come along, you won't see how embarrassing it is."

"I'll see when you come back with wet robes."

"You know there are showers for that kind of thing."

"Fine, then, I'll come with you."

"Sounds fair."

We made our way to the Fat Lady's portrait, then climbed outward, nervously looking down the hall.

"All right, then," said Fred.

"Lead on, big shot," I said, "this was your idea."

Gladly, he began, then looked down at his wand. "You...do know how to _cast Lumos_, right?"

I sighed. Better to admit it in front of one person than four, but if I had to pick one person who I didn't want knowing things to tease me about, Fred Weasley would be near the top of the list. "C'mon, mate, we had _Professor Drooble _first year. Nobody learned _anything_ in that class."

It was true. Defense Against the Dark Arts had always been a very mixed bag, but Drooble was really quite lousy.

"All right. Well, you're in luck, then," Fred shrugged. "I'll go first and clear the way."

So I followed him down flight after flight. And yes, I did wonder if we were going the wrong way. Towards the bottom I just asked flat-out, "Are you sure this is the way outside?"

"Secret passage," he replied.

"And you didn't tell me about this one before?"

"Well...secret..._ish_. Not _secret_ secret, just kind of secret. Filch doesn't patrol it."

"I thought Filch was in bed with his cat."

"He probably has to go take a leak."

It still felt a little fishy, but what was I going to do?

"Hold on," he said, after a few more passageways. "Stay right here, I want to check something. Two minutes."

And he slipped through a small wooden door that looked familiar for the split-second that his wand lit it up. Then I leaned against the opposite wall, almost sure we weren't at an outside door, but I couldn't be sure...

At that point, I heard what sounded a heck of a lot like breaking glass. I was too worried about what might have happened to Fred to realize that he must have been tricking me. Wand at the ready, I flung open the door...

* * *

><p>"...and found yourself face-to-face with the "lake.""<p>

"Yes, sir. I had been hoping for a quiet, peaceful night, the moonlight shining down on the castle grounds—"

"The moonlight?"

"And the, er, starlight, sir?"

"Last night, Jordan, was a new moon."

"Er. Well, you know, I had to make it sound like a good story."

Professor Snape paced the classroom, arms crossed. "As tempting as it would be to deter future ridiculous Muggle games, I shall limit myself to punishing the true miscreants of this...story. Jordan, twenty-five points from Gryffindor for exceptionally misguided trust; I shall also be speaking to Professor Sinistra about your astronomical ineptitude. In both senses. Weasley—_Fred _Weasley, seventy-five points from Gryffindor for attempting to put a friend's health at serious risk and destroying a professor's property. You had no idea what was in that vial!"

He nodded at the floor from which he had recently Vanished the weird potion Fred had spilled the previous night, trying to get me to walk into.

"You will also serve detention with me tonight. I will be most interested to hear about your special way of locating people's whereabouts. If the rest of you would turn to page 256."


	4. The Golden Generation

One year and one week after Professor McGonagall persuaded him to take Charms, Neville Longbottom stays up late with his textbook.

The weight of studying for exams hasn't overwhelmed him quite yet; he can't tell if Flitwick is going any easier on them because it's only their first week back, or if he's actually grown more competent with the material. At any rate, he is not doing homework. Though his wand traces and traces numerals, golden motes issuing from it every so often, this is far more banal than Arithmancy. Banal, however, does not mean easy.

But finally, everything is as ready as it's going to be, at least for the night. Trying not to yawn, he snaps his wand downward and cries out, "_Protogeo!_"

"Neville!" He didn't know that Seamus was still awake in the too-empty dormitory. The other boy has emerged in a flash, wand at the ready. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, sorry," Neville pants. "Hey, get out your Galleon, will you?"

"My Galleon?"

"Oh, that's right, you don't have one. Hold on."

"Where're you going? I'll come."

"Ginny's dorm, and it's fine."

"You can talk to her tomorrow, the staircases are charmed so that boys can't get up there."

"All right," Neville yawns, still fingering his newly-charmed coin. And then, "...Seamus?"

"Yeah?"

"What do _you_ know about trying to sneak into the girls' dorms?"

Six years and three weeks after she and four brothers started school, her parents living Galleon to Galleon, Ginny Weasley flips a fake coin nonchalantly in the Room of Requirement.

Around her, her schoolmates wait expectantly. It's hard to think of them as Dumbledore's Army without Dumbledore. Without Ron and Hermione, Colin and Dennis and Justin and Dean, without Harry.

And without Harry, it's hard to know who should speak, but people seem to be looking at her. "Right. So." Is she supposed to say something about what Neville's just worked out? "Er...Harry's off. Doing things," she stresses. "And he's taken the original Galleon. So, Neville's worked out the Protean Charm, obviously, so he'll let you know when the meetings are...you've all found your way here, so it works..."

"Me?" Neville cuts her off. "Come off it, Ginny, here." He grabs the Galleon from her hand. "You too, Luna."

"Excuse me?" says Luna, who is sitting with the others, apparently fixated on Padma Patil's braid. "Oh, all right." She pulls it out of her robes and hands it to Neville. Slowly, he repeats the same charms on both of theirs, as the others watch, as stunned as Ginny.

"Right," he says. "See if it worked. You should be able to hold down any of the digits in the serial number...yeah, like that!" Ginny presses down a 2, which flickers into a 3. "And you keep holding it, until it's what you want." She releases it on 5.

"It worked!" Lavender Brown holds up her coin. "Mine turned hot."

"So what's this news you said you had?" asks Michael Corner.

"That's the other thing Luna and I were talking over," says Neville, as Luna takes the coins and starts casting something else on them. "It's one thing to say just meet here at Friday night, but what if we want to do something somewhere else? It'd be slow, but if you can read fast enough, there's no reason you can't change the _letters_ where it says "Galleon." So it could spell out a place. Or any other message you wanted to pass along."

"I've heard from Lee Jordan, we could use this to send word to him," Ginny adds. "He says he's...planning something. I don't know either."

"The important thing," says Neville, "is that this message bit, any of you could do it. We're all in this together."

"Could we send messages to someone outside Hogwarts?" Seamus eagerly asks.

"If...if they had their coin." Neville trails off at the look on Ginny's face.

"But it's something," says Luna, passing Neville and Ginny their coins back. "It's a start."

One year after she stood in uncomfortable black velvet, remaining motionless during her mother's funeral, Hannah Abbott bursts into tears at the dinner table.

Every day has been almost as bad as every other, really. She makes too much a mess of her spellwork, coming back after a year, to be any good, but maybe that's for the best. That day, though, she has spent her last Knut of willpower keeping a blank face all through class, and can't keep going.

Ernie notices first, glancing over at her, and gets up from the table, offering her a hand. "C'mon, let's go."

"Nnnn," says Hannah, too exhausted to spit out the "o" or the "I'm fine."

"It's—just, let's go," he says, and the second time she does not fight. The staircases he leads her past seem to be rising, rather than falling, but she isn't paying attention to anything.

Vaguely, she feels Ernie's hand stiffen around hers, with the rest of him growing taut as well. Without letting go, the other hand tries the doorknob of—where are they? The common room doesn't have doorknobs.

"Oh, just you," Ernie and Neville blurt at once, bursting into weak laughter.

There are couches in the Room of Requirement, where she could sit and sink and not get up, but out of the corner of her eye Hannah notices a pair of small, thick gloves flicker into view. "What...what're you doin'?" she mutters.

"Er. Weeding," says Neville, pointing to what appears to be a small window box. "Want to help?"

She shrugs, but shuffles forward, sliding the gloves on. "What plants are those?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think they're magical, just something normal. Nothing to it, just rip the weeds out."

So she paws through the dirt, only splatting it on Neville once or twice to tease, and he gives as good as he gets. In between, she yanks out the weeds by their roots, then follows his lead in chucking them out the window. It's a long, and oddly satisfying, way down—neither quite understand the magic of the room, perhaps they'll have vanished before they hit the ground, but that's fine. She loses track of time, just rooting out the roots and ridding herself of them. He asks no questions, and neither does she, and when they both silently agree that they're done, Ernie marks his page in _Self-Defensive Spellwork_ and walks her back to the common room.

Four months after a gleaming yellow badge of a badger informed him that Life Went On and that, furthermore, he had become captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, Zacharias Smith cancels practice.

"C'mon, you've earned a break," he says. "Yes, that means you, William, I can tell you're working hard." The young Chaser blushes. "Next week, same time, same place is fine. But it's too bad of a storm out out there, I'm not having any of you get hurt."

"If you say so, captain!" Sylvia Quirke grins.

So instead of spending the evening where he'd like to be, soaring above the pitch and screaming through the rain, Zacharias holes up in the Hufflepuff common room, insulated from the wind outside. Indeed, as he doggedly checks the footnotes in the textbook he has to read for Muggle Studies, he starts to feel rather warm. Or at least, his bottom does...

Nervously, Zacharias makes sure no one's watching, then reaches for his pocket. Sure enough, there is the Dumbledore's Army coin, the sides indicating that there will be a meeting in a week.

He sighs and puts the quill down, knowing he will not finish the essay tonight. It was all well and good when they were actually a study organization, practicing the spells they couldn't get to in class. But now? Now they _are_ learning, and if there's one thing Amycus Carrow isn't it's a fool.

Class is enough. He learns, and if one day the teachers are weak enough that he can use their own spells against him, who's to say he will not take the chance? And if, as Zacharias knows is likely, that moment never comes...well...

A week from today is more Quidditch practice, anyway. He shouldn't skip that.

One day after Amycus Carrow beats him up for slacking off in detention and he proceeds to bed without doing his alchemy reading, Anthony Goldstein is called on in Transfiguration.

"What _stone_," Professor McGonagall snippily repeats, "was said to turn base metals into gold?"

There's nothing for it now but to wing it. Maybe it was supposed to be an easy question? For him? Maybe the etymology of his name would help? "Er...the...Goldstein, ma'am?"

He can tell she's trying not to laugh. "Very droll. Does anyone know the answer?"

Michael hesitates, maybe torn between wanting to move the class along and not wanting to embarrass his friend. Anthony gives him a _go for it_ nod and he speaks. "The Philosopher's Stone, Professor."

"Very good," she says. "You must understand the background of transmutation to appreciate the historical development of the field and the precise formulation of these spells. You ought also to do the reading—the endnotes are particularly worthwhile. Now, if you would take out your iron samples..."

They graffiti the walls that night instead of doing the reading, never running across the endnote warning them that trying to live forever is an impossible dream, admonishing them to try and make their lives worthwhile instead, however short they may be. In the end, perhaps, they don't need to.

Two days after he comes back from class with his arm in horrendous pain, trying not to clutch it too closely, Ernie Macmillan is approached by Stephen Cornfoot.

"Where do you keep sneaking out to?" Stephen asks.

"Er," says Ernie, and cannot think of anything else to say.

"I know you're going somewhere. You and Susan and Hannah and them."

All right, so maybe he and Susan and Hannah have not been the most discreet people in the school. But still. "Them?"

"You know, the little kids."

"Well, I _am _a Prefect." And Hannah would still be if she hadn't missed a year. "Of course I ought to be helping my younger classmates around the school."

Stephen looks around, shrugs, and continues. "We've all seen the graffiti, mate. And we know about Hannah's mum. We can add two and two."

Ernie licks his lips.

"I...Look, I'm in Defense myself, I can keep pretending to cast those curses but there's no way I can...I can...keep doing it."

Susan will herd anyone into the hidden room, but Ernie has been more wary. The younger students are frail and scared and confused enough already; he would take curses for them, stand up to the Carrows on their behalf, but actually recruiting them into resistance and bloodshed? He can't bring himself to do it. "And have you seen me skip class? Run away and hide? Nonsense! I pretend to cast those curses, same as you!"

"Yeah, but you lot are actually..._doing_ stuff. It's them against us, or it'll be soon enough anyway. I want in with you."

"I suppose," says Ernie, and looks up at Stephen again. He is of age—no, past age, he turned eighteen last month and Ernie won't until the end of May. And if not him, he'll just bother Susan about it anyway.

"Well," he says, clearing his throat, "what say you we meet here...six o'clock Friday night, and see what we see?"

Stephen realizes that's as much as he's going to get for now. "Right. See you then."

Four days after St. Patrick's Day, Seamus Finnegan comes home.

He rides the train to be with his friends—not plotting, not worrying too much, but keeping their wands at the ready in case anyone comes for any of them. Once he would have been safe enough, his mother slavishly following the Ministry line, but now he is just a Muggle's son.

But nothing happens, and they get out at King's Cross Station. He Apparates back home, suitcase in tow, missing the weeks when he could do it to get back at Fergus rather than just getting back quickly. His Mum hugs him longer than she should need to for him being eighteen; he doesn't let go.

"I'm going out to get groceries," she says after dinner. "Do you still want some of those sausages?"

"Yeah, but hold on," he says, rummaging through his trunk. "Just, any kind is good."

"Seamus!" she teases. "I only see you a few weeks out of the year, I can cook the kind of sausages you like." Neither of them mention the future.

"All right, but at least let me chip—no!"

"What is it?" she cries, rushing forward.

He tells himself to calm down, there's enough to panic about anyway. "Lost a fake coin," he says, "nothing important."

To his surprise, she smiles. "Tracked down a leprechaun already, have you? Well done!"

"No, just...not leprechaun gold. Just, just a fake coin."

"Oh."

But she's more downcast than she should be. "Why, what does it matter?"

"The leprechauns. These last few months, they're...they've been pulling away, they're hiding from us."

"How's the weather been? They just camping out at the end of the rainbow?"

"No. We're used to the weather. They...they see what we're doing to the Muggles, I don't think they like that. Unless things get better soon, who's to say they'll want to interact with wizards anymore?"

Seamus doesn't respond for a minute, still frantically riffling through his trunk, but all of a sudden he remembers that he stuffed the Galleon in his pockets again; it's so much a part of him now, he's forgotten the weight. Feeling for it through his robes, he exhales.

"Found my coin, it's all right," he smiles. "Potter will show up and...and...and kick out the snakes."

A dozen years after West Ham United's best finish ever, Dean Thomas listens to the Muggle wireless in Shell Cottage as the Hammers mark another win in what will turn out to be their best season since then.

When their defeat of Blackburn Rovers is complete, he returns to the sketch he's been working on, self-consciously tilting it towards him so that no one will see. Not that most of them would mind, really, but all the same.

Sure enough, Luna comes in and he hurriedly flips to a new sheet of paper. "Hello," she says coolly.

"Hey."

"What're you drawing?"

"Nothing!" he snaps, a little too quickly.

"Oh. Sorry." She backs away.

"No, it's fine, just...never mind."

She leaves, unconcerned, and he flips the page over again, adding small details. Here a curve of the tail, there a hoofprint in the dirt.

The first few hours of listening to her Snorkack tales were a bit off-putting, and he will never show her the pictures because he knows he does not really understand, he'll have gotten it all wrong. But now? Now he wants to put the beauty she believes in to paper. Even if it is not truth as he knows it, it might still be beautiful.

Thirteen days after Neville Longbottom left the dormitories, Terry Boot sits in the library, revising his Charms essay.

He hasn't had the easiest time of it, as a Muggle-born, but he and Kevin were able to convince the Ministry that their mad grandmother was a Squib. And he still goes to the Room of Requirement every night now—Anthony will gladly chatter on about the schoolwork he's abandoned, claiming he's "bored" of all the young Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs Neville has recruited. Michael is more concerned about practical defense.

Maybe he should be too. Maybe he should throw everything away and go disappear with them, yet most of him wants to stay put. There are other young children, caught in the crossfire, to defend, and he is not quite himself without theories and thoughts and dreams to get lost in.

So it is that he stays in the library past the time when the others have left their robes behind and are piling into the Hogs Head. It is he who feels his coin chill.

He takes it out, hiding it behind Quintessence: A Quest.

_Special  
><em>_broadcast.  
><em>_Password:  
><em>_Fenwick._

He races to the Room of Requirement and turns on the wireless that he and Wayne "liberated" from the staff room after the Easter holidays. "...again, eyewitness reports in Diagon Alley suggest that Harry Potter was indeed on the dragon that escaped from Gringotts."

Terry listens a minute longer, then inhales and walks down to the Great Hall, which looks even emptier than usual.

"What's new?" says Mandy. "Got that Potions done?"

"Not yet," he says, and finds his voice growing louder. "But listen, Harry Potter broke into Gringotts! Stole a dragon, rode it out! Bet Weasley and Granger are with him too!"

Face by face, the students turn to look at him, and he repeats Lee's broadcast over and over again. He barely feels it when Amycus Carrow's magical belt laces into his back.

Two hours before he dies, Colin Creevey wakes with a start.

Dennis is still asleep, his robe hanging on the back of their bedroom door, but Colin has kept his coin close at hand, even in his pajamas. Without a magical wireless, it's the best way to keep track of everything that's going on.

_Apparate  
><em>_to Hog's Head._

Well, he's never learned to Apparate, but he can get there. This is it, isn't it? There was a reason he convinced his family to hide out in London.

_I will be at  
><em>_London Diagon  
><em>_entrance in  
><em>_fifteen minutes.  
><em>_Can someone  
><em>_Side-Along  
><em>_me?_

he sends.

Moments later, Parvati Patil responds, _Okay._

He silently puts on day clothes, grabs his wand, repockets his coin, picks up his Comet 280 from the corner, and Disillusions himself.

He thinks about writing a note, or waking people up, but decides against it. Once everything's settled in at Hogwarts, he'll be able to send his parents an owl, or even send Dennis a message through his coin. By morning his brother will be awake and checking the Galleon as regularly as he did.

_Besides_, he thinks as he disappears into the night, _I'd better stay at Hogwarts once we get rid of the Carrows. When Dennis finds out he missed this, he's going to kill me._


	5. Laughter Silvered Wings

Michael Corner had never admitted that he was rather afraid of heights. Living as he did in Ravenclaw Tower, this might have been a rather crippling disadvantage, but in fact he was fine as long as he made his way straight to the dormitory every day and pulled the shades shut. His friend Anthony, had he known, would likely have teased him no end; as it was, Anthony spent plenty of time in the common room, reading and waiting for Michael to come down.

It took Michael three tries, and a great deal of luck, to barely pass the flying test in his first year. After that, he had steered well clear of the Quidditch pitch for over two years, when he'd cautiously made it out to watch the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, something which would safely _not_ involve flying.

The murder of a schoolmate as a result of said task had done little to help his feelings.

And yet, the vagaries of love had brought him to the pitch once again. The previous year, he had fallen for Ginny Weasley, and was able to tune out her Quidditch-related digressions given that no Quidditch was in fact being played at the school. Once she'd backed her way onto the Gryffindor team, however, Michael gulped and made his way out to the stands to cheer her on.

"They're both in with a shout, really, winner take—" Terry began, but Michael tuned him out. It wasn't difficult. Luna Lovegood, the little Ravenclaw in Dumbledore's Army, had latched on to them in the absence of other housemates, and her eagle hat was fluttering its magic wings in celebration of Roger Davies' goal.

_Wait_, he blinked, _that can't be right._ There were other girls in the organization, other people Luna could stand by and annoy. "Where's Padma?"

"Over by the sixth years," Anthony nodded.

"Oh. And Cho?"

"Over there, circling above our goalposts."

"Over— " Michael looked, very briefly, and then looked back at Anthony. "You mean she's on the team?"

"Seeking against your girlfriend, git. Catch on a bit."

"Oh," shrugged Michael. "Er, she might have mentioned it once."

He then proceeded to attempt following the score without having to actually watch the game, a process not aided by the uncharacteristically morose tone of Lee Jordan, another DA member. Ravenclaw were apparently being stymied in the goalscoring department, as evinced by Slytherin not singing loudly. Or something. Terry tried to explain the relationship to him, but it seemed to be more Lovegood's particular variety of logic.

"Oh, come on—Cho, _Cho_!_—hurry, hurry!_" Terry was suddenly whining, and Michael looked up in spite of himself. There was Cho, the—was that the Snitch? He could barely see it from his place, and he'd been sitting down all day. Sure, the exhausted players had better views, but their ability to fight through their breathlessness and stay competitive amazed him. "No!"

Michael blinked.

Something was making its way to the ground, and he followed it with his eyes, grateful not to have to watch the game. Then something else rudely fell onto the pitch—a broom, thrown down in fury or disappointment.

"You've got good taste," Terry was bitterly muttering, "I'll give you that."

"I...what?" They were all landing by then.

"Weasley. Ginny, I mean, obviously, although the way her brother—anyway, caught the Snitch. Right under Cho's nose. Dunno how she does it."

"Er. We. Lost, then?"

"Yes," said Terry, rolling his eyes.

"The game and the cup?"

"Why do you even come out here? Yes, both of them."

"To cheer...on Ginny, mostly. Think I did that a bit too well."

"You said it, mate," Terry shrugged, "I didn't."

* * *

><p>Roger insisted that, despite their season's less than desirable ending, Ravenclaw still ought to celebrate it. Preferably with Chocolate Frogs. The results did not live up to his expectations, although they lived down to everyone else's; the last thing Cho wanted to have to do was face any of her teammates, so after five minutes of his protestations they dumped Roger outside the kitchens, hoped some of the Hufflepuffs would tow him back up to the tower if necessary, and moodily stomped upstairs.<p>

"He'll be up in the morning flying those cursed frogs off anyway," Chambers muttered, and they left it at that.

Cho fell a step or two behind the rest of the team—they were just as beat as her, but she still refused to keep pace. "Hey," someone seemed to whisper. Seemed, only—he was speaking at normal volume but she was trying to tune the world out, and it was somewhat of an achievement that it even registered.

"Oh, come _on_!" a vaguely-familiar voice yelled, taking off in the opposite direction. Cho looked up, blinking, and there in front of her was...Michael, right? From the DA.

"How—I mean—sorry. That looked tough."

She flipped her hands over in a "what do you do?" gesture.

"No, I mean—here, come on."

He led her towards the next staircase, and they were halfway up before she rolled her eyes. "I lost one cursed _match_, okay? That doesn't mean I can't find my way up to the _common room_."

He laughed. A portrait sniffed, and she glanced at it, then back to Michael for a few moments—then couldn't help herself and started laughing too. Within moments all the portraits on the nearest wall were either giggling, though unsure what exactly was funny about the whole situation, or tsking them for making a scene. And even when they calmed down, she still felt a bit more lighthearted.

"Right, then," said Michael. "In that case—oh, let's get off these stairs."

Head down, he took them two or three at a time, Cho hastily following behind him. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm all...I mean, it's actually a bit rubbish but—er, I—I just don't need to be standing out here."

"A bit rubbish? Didn't realize you followed Quidditch that much." She forced a smile.

"Er...it...never mind," he shook his head.

She turned to look back at him, but—remembering how little she liked to be talk to when she was upset—said nothing. In grateful silence, they made their way to the tower.

* * *

><p>"Did you make it inside last night, cap'n? Or did the eagle stump you again?"<p>

"Shurr_up_," Roger sulked, plunking himself into a seat at the Ravenclaw table.

Cho raised her eyebrows and scurried down, catching Michael's eye and taking a seat across from him. "Morning."

"Hey!" he smiled.

"Oy," said Anthony, quill in hand, as he squinted at the _Daily Prophet_'s Sunday puzzle. "_Ministry employee missed end of northern lights. _Five letters."

"Easy," Terry smirked, "obviously it's—"

"Hey, what are you at?" Anthony cut him off with a glance at Michael.

"Just..." Michael averted his eyes from the Gryffindor table, at which Ginny was sitting with a particularly venomous glare. "Looking around."

"Going to go over there and make it up to her?" Terry asked.

"If she wants to make it up to me, she can do that. She's the one that ditched me."

Cho glanced at the Gryffindor table again, that time noticing the specific direction of the boys' glances. "You and Ginny fell out?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "She's a bit young for the interhouse thing."

"A bit young?" Terry raised his eyebrows. "How much older are you?"

But before Michael could defend himself, Cho jumped in. "Some fifth-years aren't mature enough to be snogging someone from another house. _And some are. _Don't you...don't you _dare _say otherwise."

"I'm sorry," he said, not looking at her. "That was...that was dumb of me."

She brought the wrist of her robes up to her face, wiping her nose and eyes on it. She had not thought of Cedric for weeks, but the stress of the match...she should have gotten to race him again that year, she realized, him and Harry both. That made her shut her eyes even tighter, trying not to cause a scene before she could finish her breakfast.

No use. She stood up, turning quickly. "Cho?"

"No, it's just...it's a bad day."

Michael watched her hustle out of the Great Hall, only vaguely hearing Anthony ask "_Mad digs net magical creature_, seven letters but "Niffler" won't fit if this one is..."

* * *

><p>He avoided her all of Monday, but by Tuesday he was too nervous not to do <em>something <em>about his regret. Squeezing his books tight under his arm, he found Cho in the common room. "Chang."

"Corner?"

She didn't seem upset with him, more curious, which was a start. "Er, I was wondering if you had any advice for O. W. L.s? My classmates are in the library, but I figured I should ask someone who's done it before..."

She smiled. "Which subject?"

"Er, any of them. I mean the core, obviously, I'm taking Muggle Studies, Ancient Runes, and Care of Magical Creatures as electives and..."

She brought down her Potions notes while he closed his eyes and tried to draft a History of Magic thesis. But when she got back, he could look at her handwritten notes (by far neater than Ginny's, neater even than Anthony's), and then, when he was trying to rattle off the important points, at her encouraging face. Anywhere but outside.

"That's good!" she smiled, as he recited the multiple names for aconite. "Yeah. No, that's really good, you have the main points, you just have to..."

"Not make stupid mistakes like confusing dragon's blood and dragonfly spit?"

"Well, er, for lack of a better word, yes."

And suddenly they were laughing again, and Michael had to close his eyes because even just looking at her made him feel dizzy...

"You okay?" she asked.

"Don't feel well," he said honestly. "I should go back to my room. But listen, I really appreciate it, so, thank you."

"You're welcome," she said. "I usually study outside once the weather gets warm, you're welcome to join me."

"Seriously? I mean...I thought I'd...I mean, that'd be great."

* * *

><p>Anthony teased him no end about the "study dates." Terry just raised his eyebrows and expressed his hope that some studying would in fact get done.<p>

Michael didn't care.

They breezed through the Defense Against the Dark Arts review session and Herbology almost as quickly. Michael reread Cho's notes from the previous year, and she answered his questions about the O. W. L.s while reading her own textbooks. Charms was a little more adventurous; he accidentally braided her hair and she grinningly refused to let him put it back, magically or otherwise.

"What are these?" he said, flipping past her final notes on the Cheering Charm.

"Oh. Divination." She picked one up. "This must be fourth year. I dreamed of a sky full of diamonds and decided it probably meant I was going to...find glory in the sky...or something. Win a Quidditch game." She squinted, remembering. "Yeah, we b...won against Hufflepuff by a lot. That was good."

"A sky of diamonds?" Michael muttered. "Standing all the way up there is enough of a nightmare already."

She turned to him, instinctively. "Not a Quidditch fan?"

"I..." But he had blundered in front of her, he owed her his honesty. "I'm scared of heights. Always have been."

She pursed her lips, taking it in, then slowly raised her wand to a nearby tree. "_Engorgio_," she said, and a single leaf grew twice, three times its normal size. Raising a finger to silence him, she kept up the spell until it was larger by far than any leaf had a right to be, larger than the branch it hung from, larger even than the limbs.

"There we go," she said, standing up. The sun was setting; between its low angle and the leaf's preposterous size, it cast a shadow on them about the size of a small dragon. Attempting to keep a straight face, she boasted, "I blocked the sky for you."

Part of him wanted to be offended, but yet again he found himself compelled to laugh instead. He opened his mouth—

but Cho lost focus and the leaf collapsed under its own weight, falling to the ground as they jumped in opposite directions.

"Oy!"

Anthony was waving from closer to the castle. "Was that an earthquake?" he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Or did an Attraction Charm wear off?"

"Cho was just showing me how to practice the Engorgement Charm," Michael responded without missing a beat.

Anthony grimaced. "There are broom closets for that sort of thing."

"Well," said Cho, "as a Quidditch player, I wouldn't dream of doing anything that ran the risk of damaging the equipment. Although I'm not worried about Michael. He's a very quick study."

After finding nothing better to say, Anthony settled on "You are hopeless. Both of you."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Michael. "Here, watch. _Reducio_."

Between them, the leaf shrank back to normal size while Cho smiled, Anthony rolled his eyes, and Michael's feet dug into the ground as he refused to sprint across the suddenly-too-large gap between them.

* * *

><p>By Friday afternoon everyone was sick of studying. Both Michael and Cho were sitting outside, enjoying some authors that had been mentioned but not assigned reading in Muggle Studies. As he was noting a chapter to recommend to Terry, Cho glanced at her watch and blinked wildly.<p>

"Ugh, five already! Sorry, have to go."

"I'll come," said Michael, tucking his book under his arm. "What's happening?"

"No! I mean, I'm just—having dinner with a, a friend. It's all right, go finish your book."

Michael gaped. Everything had seemed friendly between them, if perhaps no more than friendly, but he had no idea what in the last few days could have prompted such a response. "Er...right...then."

He riffled through the book, trying to read it, but quickly lost track of the argument. Not really wanting to head inside right away, he reread some History of Magic notes; he also lost track of _that_ argument, but, it being History of Magic, wasn't particularly concerned.

When he went to eat, he sat down at the Ravenclaw table, but couldn't help but glancing around at the other tables in case Cho was there. "A friend," huh? Who'd she go for? Maybe one of the Quidditch players? Or...no, not the Slytherin table. Gryffindor—no. Hufflepuff, was that...nope, not there either. Perhaps she'd already left?

But as he turned back to his plate, there out of the corner of his eye he saw Cho and Marietta Edgecombe standing up to leave. Was it just him, or did she pick up her pace as they walked away?

Still, he exhaled with a weak smile. Traitor or not, some friends were exactly that.

And so, after dinner, he found her in the common room. "Er. Cho." Before she could interrupt, he went on, "I was—wondering. I'm obviously busy next week, but then the weekend after O. W. L.s is, er, Hogsmeade weekend and I was wondering if you would want to go with me?"

She paused, and smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I would like that."

* * *

><p>They went to Hogsmeade.<p>

Both of them, silently, thought about calling it off. All during breakfast, they glanced at each other and the _Prophet_ Anthony was passing around the terrified table, drained of anticipation. But eventually, Cho just glanced at him and mouthed _Let's get out of here._

He led her to Quality Quidditch Supplies, which she acknowledged with a grateful smile, and spent most of the time playing with the scarves while she walked around, admiring brooms. Eventually his boredom was too much for him and he magically knotted several Appleby Arrows scarves, then untied them by hand until Cho was ready to leave.

She led him to Madam Puddifoot's, half in spite of herself. But given how much they were suddenly worrying about the future, it was pleasantly difficult to worry about the embarrassments of the past. He took quite a while looking over the tea options, and at first she thought he'd make fun of her for finding that kind of place but no, he was really that overwhelmed with the number of choices available for his tea. He settled on an unexciting Earl Gray; she only teased him about the amount of time it took to get there four or five times before they left.

"At least Umbridge is gone," he said, and almost as soon regretted it, but Cho didn't seem fazed.

"Wonder who we'll get next."

"As long as it's not some Death Eater. Course," he added, realizing she wasn't going to say anything selfish even as a joke, "it's not me who'll be taking N. E. W. T.s next year."

Cho grinned. "I foresee...desperate students trying to bribe their teacher to actually teach."

"After this year? I'd do it," he muttered and sighed, but decided he ought to try and say something cheerful. "As long as I don't have to spend my D. A. galleon."

"Oh no. You shall bribe the new teacher with...a magical pineapple."

And once more, he couldn't help it, cracking up but breaking it off abruptly when he saw Cho whisper "_Expecto Patronum_."

The swan took flight from the end of her neck. Michael vowed he would look up at her Patronus, watch it fly high no matter how unnerving.

But he didn't have to. It rose slightly until it hovered above them, then stayed there, blocking out the sky on its bright wings.


End file.
